Pancho Oro, Gunslinger
by Ringo the Beatle
Summary: Jim Liddle, a rich rancher, sits in his porch. Moments later he is shot by a gunman with whom he has no connection. Who is to blame and who is to gain?


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Hai Chiuso!

The stranger rolled his blanket up and tossed it onto the back of his horse. He tipped the remainder of his meal out of his pan and threw the last of his coffee over his campfire, spreading the smouldering firewood with his right foot as he did so. He reached into his shirt and took of a wad of bills and flicked through them. They looked good. He smelt them. They smelt good too. He replaced the cash, collected up his dinner set (pan, dish, cup, coffeepot and spoon) and looked around at the desert. He didn't know exactly where he was, but he knew he must be across the boarder by now. He'd pick up the trail and soon find his destination. Two canyons and one river crossing later, the ranch came into view...

Jim Liddle looked into the distance, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. He squinted, contorting his weathered, careworn face as he strained to focus on the blot on the landscape. The speck on the horizon was now the shape of a horse and rider. He ceased rocking in his chair on the porch and sat still, trying to recognise his approaching guest.

The rider tilted his hat slightly. The sun blazed down on the sands, throwing a shadow across the strangers' face. His left eye twitched as he looked Liddle and his home over. He bought his horse to a stop thirty feet from where Liddle was sat, and bought his right hand out, ready to draw.

Liddle's face became a mask of fear as he dashed right and made for his shotgun; but the stranger was quicker. In an eighth of a second, he raised his gun, cocked and emptied the first chamber. The first slug caught Liddle in the side; he took another three in the chest. He slumped across his whitewashed picket fence and hit the ground taking two stumps with him. The gunfighter had two bullets left in his gun. A dog ran up to the horse, yapping, unsettled by the echoing thuds of the gunshots. Not being one to waste, the gunsel took aim and blew the dogs brains out. The second bullet, however, was unnecessary and only added to the general mess.

The stranger, known by those few who knew him (or had seen his face on a wanted poster) as Pancho Oro, removed his hat in respect for the old man. He knew Liddle's son, Clay, professionally - they were each on opposite sides of the law. A fine man, Clay, who had had a good education; the family's hopes had been high for the boy - sure he'd made plenty of money in life, but not from his education; fresh from Harvard, he'd gone on to make a mint... as a bounty hunter. The Liddles had money - the pioneering grandfather of the clan had been involved with taking the railroads out West. But Oro wasn't being paid to do the ranch house over - just to finish the old man off. Mission accomplished.

Oro carefully cleaned and reloaded his gun, taking the time to enjoy a cigar and swig from his canteen. He turned his horse around and looked back over his shoulder without fear. The crumpled dungarees with the ill-fitting, fat occupant still lay there, baking in the burning midday heat. He headed due South and made for the trail that led back to town.

At the back of the bank among the alley cats and stench of sewage, the man in black with the red neckerchief and silver spurs waited. Presently, the sound of horse-hooves drew near, and Oro rode up alongside the black angel and dismounted.

"Done?" the man in black asked.

"No problems." Oro replied.

The two men stood looking at each other with uneasy smiles. Half to undertake the job and the other half when the job was done, that had been the deal. The black angel held out a wad of $500 in new notes; Oro's nostrils filled with the smell of fresh ink. Oro mounted before accepting the cash, then keeping one eye on the man in black, flicked through the blood money. He cautiously took his horse backwards up the bank alley, and tipped his hat to the black angel. He had $1,000 to burn.

"I'm gonna be staying in town for a while - if you want anything else doing." Oro gave a slight smile. "The hotel. Opposite the gun-store. Just remember to knock - my gun'll be more friendly that way."

He started the horse off at a gallop and reaching the other end of town, walked into the Acquasanta Saloon. Acquasanta - Holywater. Oro threw two dollar bills down on the bar (the President going face first into a smeared trail of whisky) and licked his lips as he raised some of that cool, golden holy water to his mouth...

Night crept in on the town - Western towns were more dangerous at night, bullets couldn't see where they were going and people had a tendency get in the way. The towns came to life at night; the windows had warm, friendly glows coming from inside and the pianos tinkled out happy tunes. The surrounding hills were silent, except for the echoes of saloon music and drunken shouting. A rider came galloping, hell for leather, down from the hills and into the valley.

"Clay!" he shouted, entering the main street. "Clay Liddle!"

"In here kid!" a gruff bearded man shouted from the other side of a pair of battered saloon doors.

The kid jumped down and ran in, not bothering to tie his horse up.

"Clay - Clay Liddle."

Liddle Jr. was sat at a green velvet card-table, deep in the middle of a poker game. He heard his name but didn't look up from his hand - the stakes were high.

"Over here kid - I'm Liddle."

The kid ran up, panting, breathless.

"It's your pa, Sir. Shot, shot to pieces. Critical, the doc said, not dead though."

"My pa? Shot?"

"He's laid up in a bad way, not long left I don't think. He was - he was askin' for you."

Liddle pushed up from the table and buttoned up his waistcoat. He threw his hand of a Straight Flush down on the table to the consternation of the other players and scooped up his winnings. He tossed his cigar into the corner. Liddle always won.

"Hurry Sir, the Sheriff wants you there too. Lucky the old man recognised the guy who shot him - Pancho Oro, the notorious gunslinger. Word is he came across the border last week, headed in this direction."

"Pancho Oro?" The saloon fell silent at the mere mention of the name: the maple rag tune stopped, and the merry laugh of the saloon girls died out.

Liddle checked his gun and ran out of the saloon.

He ran into the hotel, and checked the register for the last few entries: one name leapt off the page - Pancho Gold. And the Italian for Gold was 'Oro'.

He looked at the white-haired hotelier. "Pancho - where is he?"

"Room 12 Mister," the old goat creaked, "but you can't go up there, he's in with a woman."

Liddle leapt up the stairs two, three at a time and kicked the door of room 12 off its hinges.

Oro looked up from between the sheets - the woman leapt out of bed, covering herself with her left arm and right hand, and ran out of the room screaming.

Seeing Oro's gun belt on the bedpost, Liddle drew, and shot Oro's right shoulder apart. He yelped in pain and fell backwards onto the wall.

"Clay!"

The next bullet travelled into his left leg - Oro slid down the wall leaving a crimson red trail behind him. He wriggled about on the floor like a misinformed cobra-snake looking for its rattle. He squirmed out onto the balcony and clung onto the railings. Liddle walked out too and placed a foot on Oro's back. He fired again, twice. A bullet in Oro's right arm, and another straight through his right kneecap.

Oro reached for a brick on the balcony with his left arm. Liddle's fifth bullet went hurtling into the brick, exploding it and sending shards into Oro's left hand and face.

Clay gripped Oro by the left shoulder and lifted him up into an upright position -

"I want you to see this one..."

"Clay! What the hell?!"

"When I pay someone $1,000 to kill my own dear daddy, I expect him to do the job!"

He cocked one final time, and sent his last lump of metal into Oro's forehead, hitting it dead centre and sending his features into an expression of surprise - his eyes glazed, looking up to the trickle of blood coming from the smoking hole above his nose, and tongue hanging out like a sun-dried coyote.

He walked back into the hotel room and relieved Oro's saddlebag of the remainder of the $1,000. Liddle looked in the mirror and straightened his big, black hat. He corrected his black waistcoat and straightened the crease of his black trousers. He mopped his brow with the red neckerchief, and walked downstairs to the street - ready to collect the bounty on Oro from the Sheriff's office and, if he made it in time, say goodbye to his pa and hello to his inheritance.


End file.
